


Branded

by Relvetica



Series: Wolves [21]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:23:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relvetica/pseuds/Relvetica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think you tell yourself strange stories, Numbers said much later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Branded

It was a side effect born of preference and circumstance that most of the men that Wrench had had sex with were straight. He didn't like clubs; he didn't like the drugs, and he generally wasn't into people his age or younger. If Fargo had much of a gay scene when he first moved there in the early nineties, it would have been small, and the last thing he wanted was to become well known. So he stuck to quieter methods, which granted him quieter men: most were older, and many, betrayed by wedding rings and a readily identifiable attitude, were straight.

He didn't think that there was anything particularly strange about that, or (as Numbers would argue much later, when his ASL was better and they could talk about Wrench's history without his looking faint or weirdly scandalized) that such men were lying to themselves or leading double lives. Men like that wanted to be fucked, and he didn't think that was a need that had much to do with orientation. It was just a lot harder to get from women than from him. He was big enough to meet heterosexual standards of masculinity but young enough not to be intimidating. He didn't demand money, and he didn't pose questions about suspicious kinks. He just gave them what they wanted, and doing that pleased him; he didn't even exist for them afterward, but he got off, so that was all right. There were enough older gay men in the mix interested in other things that it didn't become monotonous. Men who did in fact pick him up because they wanted other men.

This dichotomy made sense to him, but it left him unprepared when whatever was driving the tension between himself and Numbers took a sharp turn. Numbers was straight, but he wasn't looking to be fucked, and he couldn't just walk away afterward. Once Wrench had shoved him over that line, he didn't how to approach him; he tried signaling that he didn't need anything that would make Numbers uncomfortable or unhappy, but he only ended up confusing him. He stumbled a lot in the beginning trying to make the pieces fit.

I think you tell yourself strange stories, Numbers said much later. You don't talk to people, so you make things up about them. That way, the world makes sense to you.

Wrench didn't like that suggestion. He always had a better read on people than Numbers did. Numbers didn't know what he was talking about. He was just weird.

\---

Wrench's face was tucked against Numbers' shoulder and his arm was under his neck, so instead of asking him in any sort of normal way what the schedule was, he propped his left wrist on the center of Numbers' chest and sleepily fingerspelled A-W-A-K-E, W-H-E-N.

Numbers' chest shook a little as he laughed and he said, eight. I think. Eight is fine.

Okay.

Numbers prodded Wrench's palm and said, lazy.

Wrench sighed and shrugged one shoulder. Okay.

Cute, Numbers added.

N-O-T. L-A-Z-Y, fine, C-O-R-R-E-C-T. He borrowed Numbers' chest to say 'fine,' which made him laugh again.

Just use English if you're going to fingerspell everything. _Less_ lazy. Easier to understand.

Wrench made a face.

Your English is perfect. Your writing. You use W-H-O-M. Who uses W-H-O-M?

Wrench jutted a thumb at himself, and Numbers kissed his forehead. Numbers hated having to read fingerspelling at length _and_ he had just managed to use 'whom' correctly in the wrong language; he was just making fun of him now.

They lay quietly for a while. Numbers was watching him in an affectionate sort of way that Wrench wasn't used to at all yet. He couldn't quite fall back asleep, but he was halfway there when Numbers said, question.

Wrench lifted his head a little.

What does a star mean? he asked.

Wrench blinked sleepily and shook his head. Numbers touched his shoulder where Wrench's mouth had been. Oh, the tattoo.

What do you think? he asked; that he could sign from his position understandably enough.

I think I know, Numbers said. I guess... better question. Why did you choose it?

Wrench smiled and said, my mark on you, pressing his palm against his chest and then drawing a line on Numbers' with his fingertip. B-R-A-N-D-E-D you.

That was a long time ago, Numbers said. Last year. We were angry, fighting.

No, Wrench said. He finally reclaimed his right arm and sat up a little. You wanted me to hit your face. You wanted me to leave a mark on you. You said, choose.

It's my favorite now, Numbers said.

Good.

You chose-- Numbers hesitated. I-D information.

Wrench shrugged. On you, not me.

Yes, Numbers said, but... it gives to _me_ I-D information. Personal.

Wrench thought for a long moment, and then he sat up and leaned over Numbers to take both of his hands. Numbers let him; Wrench crossed Numbers' fingers on both hands, forming R's, and then brought them both down to touch the tattoo. He let go and Numbers left his hands there, looking up at him with wide eyes.

You said it, Wrench said. I'm your responsibility.

Numbers stared for several moments longer, and he then asked, that's why?

Wrench broke into a grin. No, he said.

Numbers smacked him in the stomach, and Wrench laughed. Wrong shoulder, Wrench said. Sort of. But it's close! It works!

Numbers scrubbed his eyes with his palms. Really, he asked, why?

I told you, Wrench said. I chose a mark. A black eye heals, an embarrassing tattoo you can joke about, but with that you can't forget.

Numbers frowned. I don't want to forget, he said.

It was different before. Wrench hesitated, and added: before, all straight men wanted to forget.

Numbers looked up at him at him for a long moment. Then he rolled his eyes with great exasperation and pulled him back down to his chest. He said something into Wrench hair -- he could feel his breath and his voice. He had no idea what the words were, but he knew they didn't matter.


End file.
